Saturday, 19 September 2009

My day began at 12:00am this morning where I was still reading "The Slap", sitting on the couch as my husband watched an interesting French movie on SBS, both of us bleary eyed.

It had been ages, AGES since I had bought a book and I didn't realise how precious it was, walking out of the book store with that book in the white paper bag with a spring in my step the day before in my lunch hour, fighting my way through the seething masses of kids and zombie eyed adults going about their business in the zombie shopping centre.

At 1:30am our eyelids began to close and we crawled into bed.

I finished the book at around midday, exhausted from all the "fuck's", "cunts" and "cocks" peppering the pages and although it was confronting, explicit and violent I don't know if I enjoyed it.

I couldn't, however, put it down.

My personality has always been all or nuthin, up or down, crazy or quiet, addicted or not.

A (happy) medium, a level, a sustainable point or line in the sand would be nice, boring but agreeable and pleasant if for a short time.

And so I read it till I had turned the last page.

My cousin, an avid reader who takes a suitcase of books on holidays with her to read under a sun umbrella by the hotel pool will be the recipient of it next time I see her.

"It's graphic and there's heaps of fucking".

"You'll love it".

The housework beckoned and I put another load of washing on whilst watching my ironing pile escalate.

What would my carbon footprint be getting rid of all that shit I wondered.

Random thoughts came and went.

I went shopping.

I had a fight with my husband.

Then a fight with my eldest son.

I dreamed.

I laughed.

And now I'm here.

Nothing to write about and conversely, much to tell..

My head is busting, BUSTING with stuff to write about.

When I sit at the keyboard my brain freezes.

Ever tried to fuck at your parents or relatives house (when you got married, became middle-aged and cringed if the bed squeaked, that is) and disovered stage fright?

Or been busting to rip out an enormous number two in the ladies at work then someone walks in and instead you squeeze out a hapless and thoroughly unsatisfying fart?

Well it's similar to that.

Kinda, sorta.

An activity which gave me so much pleasure and made me smelly armed with passion and fervour as I typed, wildly and ambitiously has now almost reduced me to tears.

All I can push out are tidbits, scraps, the entree to the meal but not the meal and certainly no bloody desert.

So my head is a rambling, jumbled and incoherent mess at the moment.

It's all

trust
autism
aspergers
americans who oppose universal healthcare are fucking idiots
love and the lack of it
missing you desperately and knowing I will never have you, you know who you are
my beautiful kids
my anger
my fear
my guilt
my sorrow

and my previous and better life

Terribly, pathetically, desperately happy

It was 2007 on Australia Day at Windang, south of Wollongong in NSW.

My car with sand in all of it's orifices had been parked in the cool shade under a tree that swayed to the tune of the ocean wind and I'd stripped off down to my swimmers, hurriedly thrown the excess clothing in a crumpled pile on the back seat and taken out my board.

I had paddled, swum and kicked past the white, churning and breaking surf and was floating on my board in the calm, clear water with the white sands of the beach seemingly a million miles away.

The sun beat brightly and lit up my salty body to glisten, diamond like.

Elated and on a high I grinned at the vast and excessively blue sky.

Sky smiled right back at me.

There was no

guilt
fear
regret
or
loathing.

Only zen like peace and sage like clarity.

It occured to me only recently that it was the last time I felt truly, wonderfully, child-like happy.

The elusive inner peace I had craved for so long was mine, if only for that incredibly brief, precious hour or two until I realised that being on my own in the ocean, having told no-one where I was and without anyone around me to help me were I to get into trouble was very, very foolish.

Reality does that though, it shits on you unsuspectingly, quickly and seemingly with glee, delighting at awakening you from your slumber of serenity and cutting your bliss deeply with a very sharp knife.

I've had my hopes and desires fall from my hands and shatter into a gazillion pieces and I've walked on those fucking shards of reality ever so painfully for the longest, longest time.

Eventually though, the pain and anger from love found and lost and the occurence of events beyond my control have slowly subsided.

Even the silent, salty tears have dried up and no longer fall.

I am for the most part - thank you very much - comfortably numb.

Yet even so, I hope to relive that precious, cherished day again.

One brilliant day.